The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the ramen shop, a relentless rhythm that echoed the churning thoughts in my head. I drained the last of the spicy broth, the fiery liquid a welcome burn. "Another bowl, old man," I growled, tossing a wad of bills onto the counter. "And make it volcanic."

  "You've got the appetite of a demon, Sneck," the owner chuckled, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "Thirty-six years old, and you eat like you're trying to fill a void."

  "Thirty-six," I muttered, flexing my arm beneath the tailored suit of hardened monster hide. "And reaching my peak. Rank 20 now. And climbing." I tapped my temple. "It's not just food, old man. It's fuel. Power. I'm building something… substantial."

  Two weeks. Two weeks since the golden finger. Since the orbs. Shimmering, golden orbs of pure energy that appeared after a good fight with a monster. A secret. My secret. Strength, speed, a potential lifespan extension. "Who'd have thought punching monsters could be a… calling?" I mused, the steam from the ramen swirling around me.

  The owner just shook his head, probably thinking I'd finally succumbed to the madness of this city. He wouldn't understand. Nobody would. They saw the A-class hero, rank 20, the guy who kept the streets relatively safe. They didn't see the orb collector, the power-hungry strategist, the man playing a game they didn't even know existed.

  Yesterday, Sitch called. The Association's suit. "F-city," he'd said, his voice clipped and efficient. "We need you to take charge." F-city. My city. "Home turf," I'd replied, a predatory grin spreading across my face. "Sounds like a plan." It wasn't just about the hero points or the increased salary. It was about control. Resources. More money meant better gear, better training. And Z-city, that was about something else entirely. "Gotta keep those kids sharp," I muttered, a flicker of something akin to purpose in my voice.

  But F-city was… stifling. Too peaceful. Just petty criminals and the occasional low-level monster. Not enough… resources. "Sitch," I'd said, pushing my luck, "I'll be checking on Z-city too."

  Z-city. The monster breeding ground. The place where the real fights were. "That's where… the real opportunities are," I thought, picturing the chaotic cityscape. "That's where I need to be."

  Sitch had hesitated, predictably. "Z-city is… volatile, Sneck," he'd warned, his voice laced with concern. "It's not a place for solo excursions."

  "I work best alone," I'd insisted. "I'm not some team player."

  "We appreciate your… dedication," he'd said, "but we can't risk losing you."

  "I'm not going to be lost," I'd grunted, "I'm going to be found."

  I'd accepted the compromise: occasional patrols, checks on Z-city. But I wasn't going to bring my disciples. This was my hunt. My secret.

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  Back at my dojo, I gave my disciples instructions. "Stay sharp," I told them. "I'll be back."

  They looked up at me, their eyes wide with a mixture of respect and concern. "Be careful, master," one of them said.

  "Careful is for cowards," I replied, a predatory grin spreading across my face. "I'll be fine."

  I packed my gear, the anticipation building with every passing minute. Z-city was calling, and I was ready to answer. Alone.

  The city was a wasteland, a labyrinth of twisted metal and crumbling concrete. Monsters roamed the streets, their roars echoing through the desolate landscape. "Alright," I muttered, my voice cutting through the din. "Let's see what you've got."

  And, thankfully, no Saitama. A good change. If that bald menace was here, every monster would be reduced to dust before I even had a chance to throw a punch. I needed the orbs, and Saitama was a walking, talking monster-vacuum.

  The first monster was a hulking brute, its skin thick and scarred. It charged at me, its claws extended. "Come on then," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

  I met the monster head-on, my fist clad in a gauntlet of monster hide connecting with its thick hide. A satisfying thud filled the air, and the monster staggered back. Orbs began to appear, shimmering like golden motes. I absorbed them, feeling the familiar surge of power.

  "This is it," I thought, my blood pumping. "This is my domain."

  The fight was a brutal dance of blows and dodges, but I prevailed. The monster fell, and more orbs appeared. I collected them all, my body thrumming with newfound energy.

  "Again!" I shouted, my voice hoarse. "Bring me more."

  Z-city was my personal hunting ground, a never-ending source of power. And I was going to conquer it, one orb at a time. "Sneck's hungry," I muttered, my eyes gleaming in the dim light. "And I'm not going to stop until I'm at the apex. And without that bald pest stealing my prey."

  The acrid scent of dissipating monster flesh clung to the air, a metallic tang that did little to mask the bitter taste of disappointment. Another Tiger-level husk, dissolving into shimmering motes of nothingness. Another goddamn orb. I stared at the thing, its dim, lukewarm glow mocking me.

  "Just Tigers?" I growled, the words scraping against the tightness in my throat. My knuckles were white, clenched so hard they ached. I’d felt it, that surge, that undeniable shift. The hours of brutal training, the relentless push past my limits – it hadn’t been for nothing. I was stronger, faster, a force to be reckoned with. I was ready. I was ready for Demons, maybe even… higher.

  But this barren wasteland of a city offered nothing but these pathetic, low-grade scraps. I’d carved a path through this ruined district, a whirlwind of fists and fury, and all I’d gotten were these… these toys. Mutated rats, hulking brutes with more bark than bite, all falling before my enhanced strikes like paper dolls.

  Each victory, each dissolving corpse, yielded only these mundane, useless orbs.

  A cold dread began to seep into my bones, a chilling whisper that threatened to extinguish the fire of my ambition. What if they were gone? What if the real threats, the Demons that had once haunted this city, had already been… dealt with?

  My mind conjured an image, unwanted and infuriating: Saitama. Caped Baldy. That blank, emotionless face, that casual, effortless power. He’d probably strolled through the city like it was a park, a light breeze ruffling his cape, and obliterated everything in his path. No fanfare, no struggle, just… gone.

  The thought was a lead weight in my gut. All that training, all that sacrifice, all that burning desire to prove myself, and for what? To mop up the leftovers? To clean up after the guy who could kill a god with a single punch?

  I looked around at the desolate streets, the skeletal remains of buildings reaching towards a smoke-filled sky. It was too clean. Too quiet. Too… safe. The city, perhaps, had been thoroughly cleansed.